


Mortal Once More

by Elizabeth_Dicewielder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Andromeda Black Tonks - Freeform, Blood supremacy, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Sirius Black, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Misgendering, Narcissa Black Malfoy - Freeform, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Trans Male Character, Trans Regulus Black, Walburga Black's A+ Parenting, voldemort - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Dicewielder/pseuds/Elizabeth_Dicewielder
Summary: Sirius' personality and story is so explosive, Regulus often goes overlooked. This is his story.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 86
Collections: HP TransFest 2020





	Mortal Once More

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags! And let me know if I need to add/change anything. 
> 
> Sensitivity reader: @ac1d6urn (Acid) - thank you so much for all your help!

Lycoris Cassiopeia Black is seven years old when she first says the word ‘mudblood.’ 

She doesn’t think much of it. In all honesty, she has no idea she hasn’t said it before, and that’s only because she’s the quiet one—always listening rather than speaking. This just happens to be the first time it comes up in a conversation she participates in.

Her parents, however, notice. She says her piece, the word tumbling out of her mouth, and her mother and father exchange a look. A proud smile.

She doesn’t understand why. She looks to Sirius, but he just shrugs. He is only a year older, and though Lycoris is often of the opinion that her brother is the smartest person she has ever met, his knowledge fails him here.

She wonders if it’s because she spoke. Her mother is always getting on her case about talking more. ‘Always so quiet,’ she says. ‘If you don’t speak your mind no one will ever notice you.’

Lycoris isn’t sure why being noticed is so important. She likes being on the sidelines, observing. She already knows what she’s thinking, so why bother saying it when there’s so much more to learn about the people around her?

Kreacher walks in and starts clearing the table. He stacks each of their plates silently, taking Lycoris’ plate last.

“Thank you,” Lycoris whispers. Her mother doesn’t like it when she thanks house elves, says it’s ‘unbefitting’—whatever that means, but Kreacher has always been nice to her and she doesn’t see any reason why she can’t be nice in return.

Kreacher nods slightly. He knows not to get Lycoris in trouble.

Walburga looks towards Sirius and Lycoris. “You two should get ready for bed.”

“What? But it’s only seven!” Sirius complains. Lycoris agrees, but keeps her mouth shut.

“Don’t argue with your mother,” their father says.

Walburga stiffens, then snaps at him. “I don’t need your help.”

Lycoris flinches at her mother’s tone. Orion just slumps back in his chair. There are dark circles under his eyes that look like they’re weighing him down.

“Bed. Both of you.”

“But—” Sirius starts.

Walburga narrows her eyes. “Do you really want to finish that sentence?”

Lycoris grabs Sirius’ hand under the table, partly to keep him from going on, and partly to calm her own racing heart.

A moment passes where Lycoris doesn’t know what will happen, but Sirius squeezes her hand, a silent reassurance. He looks down. “No, Mother.”

“Good. We’re going to visit your cousins tomorrow and we’re leaving early. I expect both of you in bed by seven thirty or you don’t get breakfast. Understood?”

“Yes, Mother,” they echo in unison.

“Good.” She smiles, but her eyes are cold. “Now shoo.”

~

Lycoris has never liked her uncle’s house. Partly because of the people who live there. Partly because it feels exactly like her own.

Ancient portraits of family members long dead line every wall. It always feels like she’s being watched, her ancestors judging her every move. The floorboards creak only when she doesn’t expect it. The couches are stiff and uncomfortable. The whole house seems to leech color and spit out a drab, distorted version of the world. At least at home there’s her own room she can go hide in, but here there is no escape.

And then, of course, there are her relatives.

It’s Aunt Druella who speaks first, with her stiff curls and fake smiles. She looks towards Sirius. “My, how you’ve grown!” She always says that.

Sirius grins in return. It looks perfectly genuine, but Lycoris knows him well enough to see that it’s strained. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“And Lycoris! What a beautiful young lady you’ve grown into!” 

Lycoris chokes on air. The words feel like they’re stuck to her skin, like she is drowning in it.  _ Young lady _ . She wants to scrub herself clean, to hide from the eyes around her, all thinking what a beautiful  _ young lady _ she is. She doesn’t know why. She can never quite place why it bothers her so much. All she knows is that it does, and she wants out.

“Lycoris,” her mother hisses.

Lycoris gulps down the sickness spiraling in her mind. “Thank you.”

“Orion can't make it?” Uncle Cygnus asks.

“No. Apparently he’s ‘busy with work’ again.” Walburga’s words are clipped. “The girls are home, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Druella says. “I’ll get them.” She soon returns with Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa in tow, only one of which seems to be remotely happy to see them.

“Shall we?”

Walburga nods to her brother. “The adults have some affairs to discuss. I’m sure you’ll be able to keep each other entertained?” She looks towards Lycoris’ cousins expectantly.

Andromeda nods, smiling, Narcissa rolls her eyes, but mumbles her agreement, and Bellatrix looks very much like she would rather be anywhere else.

Walburga, Cygnus, and Druella start towards the hallway, only for Cygnus to pause. “Bellatrix? Aren’t you coming?”

Bellatrix’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“You’re seventeen now. Come.” He continues walking.

Bellatrix rushes to catch up.

Lycoris knows her parents and aunt and uncle have regular meetings of some sort, sometimes with other families from the sacred twenty eight too, but she, nor her brother or cousins, have ever been invited. Although she wants to know what it’s all about, she suspects it would all be very boring, and so she is just as happy not to be there.

Once they’re gone, Andromeda gives Lycoris and Sirius a conspirator’s grin. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

Lycoris smiles a little in return. Of all her cousins she has always liked Andromeda best. Even though they were young, she has always treated Sirius and Lycoris with respect, which certainly isn’t common in the Black family. She talks with them like friends. With Andromeda, Lycoris can relax.

Possibilities race through Lycoris’ mind. What  _ are _ all those meetings about? The Ministry of Magic? Something to do with Hogwarts? The Black family fortune?

Narcissa makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t care. I’m going to study—and don’t even think about bothering me.” With that, she storms off to her room.

“Well, she’s boring,” Andromeda huffs. “All she ever does is study nowadays. Rumor is she’s competing with some guy for the best grades in the class.”

“Is she winning?” asks Sirius.

Andromeda laughs. Lycoris relaxes a little more, the bright sound so different from the stiffness around her. “Of course she’s winning.” She winks. “Come on, let’s go to my bedroom. It’s a lot nicer.”

~

Lycoris hears the front door close with a creak. The sound traces its way up the walls, through the cracks and corners until it reaches her bedroom. That can only mean one thing: her father is home.

She jumps up, buzzing with excitement, and pulls the parchment out of her bag for school. The corners are a little crumpled, but otherwise it’s still perfectly flat.

The sound of her light footsteps down the stairwell match her thrumming heartbeat, speeding up as her grin grows wider. Her teacher told them to share their drawings with their families, but Lycoris knows her mother wouldn’t care, so she waited for her father to come home.

She slides through the hall with her socked feet towards the living room where her father will be, reading whatever book he’s currently on. The last step she takes is more of a leap, but before she comes rushing into the room she pauses at the corner. Her parents’ voices ring through the room and into the hall.

“What are you afraid of?” Walburga demands.

“I’m not  _ afraid _ of anything. Just cautious.”

“Cautious? Really?” Her spiteful laugh sends shivers through the air. “You’re scared and we both know it. Scared of losing your perfect little job at the ministry working with defensive spells, scared of doing anything actually worthwhile, scared of having no excuse to leave me alone to  _ rot _ in this house with these bloody children!”

Lycoris shrinks back into the wall, all her excitement folding in on itself and dissipating. Her hands start shaking, so she flattens them against the wall to keep the parchment from making any noise.

She despises that tone, those hateful words. Her mother has a way of tearing down everything and everyone around her, of striking fear in the heart with just a look. Lycoris has too many bruises and too many scars, even now, to think her mother is anything other than cruel.

“As the Black family heir, raising children is—”

“You think I don’t know my own responsibilities?” Walburga cuts him off. “I am more loyal to this family than you have ever been. But this is beneath me.” Something shatters—it sounds like glass. Probably a wine glass. “I am so tired of being nothing more than a mother to two useless children!”

A lump forms in Lycoris’ throat. Part of her wants to run away, run back to her room, but she’s frozen. She has no choice but to listen.

“Walburga…”

“Don’t. Do you think I can’t see a world in need of fixing when it’s right in front of me? Do you think I can’t see what we need to do to fix it, the leader we need to follow?” There’s a pause. Even from the hall Lycoris can feel her mother’s glare. “But no. You’re too scared to join him.”

“It’s not that.”

“Yes. It is.” She makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “Go back to your perfect little job and your perfect little book. I’ll be living in the  _ real _ world, watching it fall apart as you do  _ nothing _ .”

Walburga’s footsteps get louder. Lycoris shrinks further against the wall and her mother walks past. She goes entirely unnoticed as Walburga storms up the stairs.

Lycoris wipes away a tear and looks back at her artwork, trying to summon back the excitement she once had. It doesn’t work, but she manages a smile.

She walks into the living room and sits next to her father on the couch. “Hi.”

Orion looks up from his book. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I just made something in school that I wanted to show you.”

“Oh.” He sighs. “Maybe another time, okay? I’m really tired.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay,” Lycoris says. She can’t keep the disappointment from her voice, but her father has already gone back to his book.

She can always show him another time. That’s what he had said, after all. Just not right now. She can show him later. But part of her knows she can’t. He will always be ‘too tired’ and it will never be the right time. She ignores that part of her.

The paper has crumpled a little from her grip, so she flattens it out on her lap. It’s a long shot, but maybe her mother will want to see it. 

Lycoris stands and runs up the stairs, stopping to knock on the door to her parents’ bedroom before opening it.

“What do you want,” her mother sighs. She’s combing her hands through her hair, twisting it up into a bun.

Lycoris fights the urge to step back at her mother’s tone. “I made something in school I wanted to show you. It’s a picture of us.”

Walburga pushes the last pin into her hair and holds out her hand. “Alright, let’s see it.”

Lycoris hands her the parchment and jumps up onto the bed next to her mother, her excitement renewed. Her mother doesn’t usually care about this sort of thing.

Walburga briefly glances over the sketch. “You drew this?”

“Yes! Do you like it?”

“What ink did you use? This looks different from what we have at home.”

Lycoris bounces on the bed. “We used this thing called a pencil! Our teacher said it’s what she used to use all the time when she was little. It doesn’t even use ink, it just…” She trails off, noticing her mother’s look of disgust as she drops the drawing on the bed.

“Why didn’t you tell me your teacher is a mudblood?”

Lycoris blinks. That doesn’t make any sense. “What? She’s not. She’s always so nice.”

“Pencils are muggle objects. Your teacher is a mudblood, and is tricking you into associating with muggles.”

It feels like she’s frozen. She doesn’t understand. How can her teacher be a mudblood? She has never done anything wrong! Whenever one of the students is upset she always helps them, and she’s never mean or rude.

“I know this must be upsetting,” Walburga says. “I’ll get it all worked out, okay?”

Lycoris nods, an automatic response. It doesn’t feel like she’s in control of the movement. “Do you like the drawing otherwise?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course.” She stands, already moving onto other things in her mind.

“Do you want to keep it?”

Walburga pauses, furrowing her brow. “Why would I want that?”

Lycoris shrugs. She swallows down the question, ignoring how much it hurts. “I thought maybe you could put it up in your room.”

“Oh.” She looks around the room. “I don’t think it would go very well with anything in here, do you?”

Lycoris looks at her feet, ashamed of voicing the thought in the first place. Waves of heat wash over her as she shifts from foot to foot. Her mother is right. It is stupid. “No.” She reaches over and picks it up.

“Why don’t you hang it up in your room? That’ll look much better.”

Lycoris nods and turns to leave. She knows the real reason her mother wants it in her room; so no one else will have to see it.

She blinks back tears.  _ Ladies don’t cry _ , her mother’s voice echoes in her head. She always hated when her mother told her that, but she listens nonetheless. It’s always better to listen to her mother. It’s always safer.

On the way back to her bedroom, she passes Sirius’ room. She doesn’t think it through before opening the door and shoving herself inside.

Sirius looks up from his homework. “What is it?”

“I… umm.” She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know why she’s even in here. “I drew a picture of our family in school. Do you want to see?”

Sirius grins, tossing his homework aside and sitting up from where he’s lying on his stomach on the bed. “Sure!”

Lycoris sniffs, and smiles. Sirius is always so much more relaxed about these things than her parents. She should have gone to him first.

She hands him the picture and sits down next to him. “What do you think?”

Sirius looks it over before handing it back to her. “I think it looks really good! I do have a question though.”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you draw Mother in a dress but not you?”

Lycoris stiffens. In all honesty, she doesn’t know. She’s been asking herself the same question since she finished it. “I don’t know,” she says, forcing herself to relax. “I just thought it looked better that way.”

“Well, it looks good.”

Lycoris smiles sheepishly. 

“Can I keep it?”

Her heart practically stops. “What?”

“I wanna hang it up above my desk. Is that okay?”

“Yes!” She’s grinning, wider than she has all day. She feels as if she might burst with happiness.

Sirius immediately grabs the drawing and sticks it up on the wall with one of the nails on his desk. He likes keeping things on his wall, she’s noticed—sketches, photos, quotes he ripped out of books—so at some point he must have started keeping a stash of nails on his desk.

“It fits perfectly.” He gives Lycoris a half-hug from the side. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says, though she feels very much like she should be the one thanking him.

~

Three loud slams sound on her door. “Give it back! I know you took it!”

Lycoris’ face hurts from grinning. She’s putting all of her weight into the door, desperately trying to keep it closed with her shoulder, but Sirius is stronger. He manages to get the door slightly open and she’s running out of stamina.

Quickly, she analyzes where she is in the room and how much force Sirius is putting into the door. If she times it right… 

Lycoris jumps away from the door, laughing as Sirius slips and falls on his face.

Sirius pushes himself off the floor, fuming. “Give me back my shirt.”

“What shirt?”

“You’re smiling. I know you’re lying.”

She snorts. “I might just maybe possibly know where it is.”

“It’s been missing for two weeks!” Sirius shoves her shoulder, forcing her to step back to keep her balance.

Lycoris shoves him back harder. He stumbles back three steps. “You’re the one who didn’t notice until now.”

“It’s still my shirt and I want it back!”

She crosses her arms. That shirt is practically hers now. She wore it thrice without him even noticing. It’s one of the few things she’s ever worn that she actually likes. “It looks better on me.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Why? Because it’s a boys shirt and I’m not a boy?” Words are slipping out of her mouth too fast for her to control. She doesn’t even know why she brought that up.

“No, because everything always looks better on me because I’m  _ me _ .”

“Nya nya nya I’m Sirius and I’m perfect. If I could marry anyone, it would be myself,” Lycoris imitates in a nasally voice.

“That’s not even close to what I sound like.”

“‘That’s not even close to what I sound like.’”

“Give it back!”

“‘Give it back!’” She starts laughing again, just at the pure fury on his face. Their faces are likely both turning red, but for entirely different reasons.

“I will get my shirt back,” Sirius announces, eyes narrowed.

Lycoris smirks. “Wanna bet?”

She dashes past him and out the door, pushing off the wall to round the corner into the hall. Sirius is hot on her heels, but she doesn’t look back. Her feet take her through the hall and stomp down the stairs as fast as she can. 

Sirius makes an attempt to grab her shirt, but she dodges him. “I hate you!”

“‘I hate you!’” she mocks again, head turned back to make eye contact with him, just to catch another glimpse of how angry he is. He really should see his face.

She takes her last step from the stairs and slams into someone.

Lycoris tenses, but has enough power to force herself to take a step back. To meet the burning gaze of her mother.

Fear drips down her spine.

Something is different about her. Lycoris doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the way she purses her lips. Or her posture. Or how it’s fire in her eyes, scalding, unrelenting fire, instead of that cool, calculating ice.

Lycoris glances to the side. There, on the table in the hall: a glass of wine. Her hands start shaking.

She doesn’t know much about alcohol, but she knows that when her mother drinks, she  _ drinks _ . And she knows that when that happens, the best place to be is as far away as possible.

Walburga takes Lycoris’ arm with a bruising grip, and starts marching her up the stairs. She grabs Sirius’ arm and drags him along, too.

Lycoris bites her lower lip to keep from crying out. Her mother’s grip feels strong enough to break bone and her nails dig into Lycoris’ skin.

Soon Lycoris is thrown into her bedroom and Sirius into his, the door slamming in her face. She immediately lunges for the doorknob, but she already knows it won’t open. Her mother locked her in.

Lycoris glances at the clock. Four thirty in the afternoon. She forces a sigh of relief. Dinner will be in a few hours and she’ll surely be let out then.

The hours come. And her mother does not.

Lycoris is not let out until a little after noon the next day.

~

Lycoris flops onto her back on Sirius’ bed. He is laying next to her, but opposite; his feet are next to her head and vice versa. She isn’t quite sure how they ended up in this position. She’s never sure how they end up in this position, for it happens quite often and it usually ends with someone’s foot in the other’s face.

“What do you think it’s gonna be like?” Sirius asks.

“Huh?” Lycoris zoned out for a few minutes while Sirius was rambling.

“Hogwarts. What do you think it’s like?”

“Oh.” She hasn’t much considered it. It’s still over a year away for her, but Sirius just got his letter and he hasn’t stopped talking about it since. “I don’t know. It’s a castle, right? Probably castle-y.”

“Do you think there will be suits of armor? And swords?” Sirius nudges her head with his foot. “Oh! And dragons? Those are at castles, right? What if there’s a throne? Do you think we’ll all get thrones in our dormitories? I can totally be king of the dormitory.”

She thinks it through. “Probably, maybe, no, no, definitely not, and you would make a terrible king.”

“You just say that because you’re biased against me.”

“Yeah, because I know you.”

“Exactly.” Sirius pauses. “Wait…”

There’s a soft knock, and Kreacher opens the door. He takes a few steps inside, crouched in on himself as usual. “Dinner is served, Master Sirius and Mistress Lycoris.”

Paralysis takes hold of Lycoris’ body. She can’t breathe, can’t think. She is vaguely aware of Sirius standing and leaving the room.

_ Mistress Lycoris _ . She hates it. She hates being called that, more than anything in the world.  _ Mistress _ . The word crawls up her nose and invades her lungs. She is drowning in it.

“Mistress?” Kreacher asks.

She can’t move. She can’t answer. There is nothing,  _ she _ is nothing other than that word. It spreads across her skin, covers her in its utter wrongness. She doesn’t understand. She always hated the word, some days more than others, but this… This is new. It feels like she has no control. Like she is nothing other than that word. That is all she will ever be and all anyone will ever see her as.

Lycoris manages three words. “Close the door.” Kreacher does as she asks.

In a great feat of strength and willpower, she forces herself into a seated position. She’s breathing too fast, far too fast, but at least she’s breathing.

In time her breathing slows to its normal pace. Her skin still feels wrong, but at least her lungs once more feel like her own.

“Kreacher, I… umm. Uh, I—um.” She cuts herself off. How can she say it? What is she even trying to say? How can she possibly say it if even she doesn’t know?

Kreacher remains silent, waiting. He doesn’t push.

“Do—do you—do you think you can… that you can maybe not call me that?”

“What would you prefer?”

“Maybe just Lycoris?”

Kreacher shakes his head. “That is not Kreacher’s place. Kreacher must maintain formalities.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t know what, then. She’s probably just overreacting anyway. It isn’t that big a deal. She’s just being stupid.

“What if Kreacher called you Master Lycoris?”

A feeling rises in her chest—a kind of lift that she can't describe. Something about that… She doesn’t know why, but it feels much better. “That would work.”

Kreacher nods. “Then dinner is served, Master Lycoris.”

There it is again—that lift. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“There is no need to thank Kreacher.” He always says that. She always disagrees.

“You can’t call me that in front of…” Her mother. Her father. Even Sirius. He can't call her that in front of anyone. She doesn’t know why she feels that way, but some part of her knows.

“Kreacher understands. It will only be in private.”

She smiles, and stands. Kreacher is supposed to be just a house elf. Someone to look down upon. That’s what her parents always tell her. But no one has ever been as kind to her as him. So, despite what her parents say, he is her friend.

“Thank you.”

“There is no need to thank Kreacher.”

~

Her reflection stares back at her, with those grey eyes and soft jaw and long hair.

She hates it.

Lycoris is transfixed, so utterly stunned by the girl staring back at her that looks nothing like what she feels inside. This is the person the world sees. This ten year old girl with a small frame and porcelain face is how everyone sees her.

She hates it. It is a hatred so pure, so volatile, it runs deep into her bones, coursing through her blood until she is cold, so cold she feels like ice. The feeling festers inside, freezing her heart and mind until all she can think about is this. Changing it. Fixing it.

She doesn’t know what she is supposed to look like. She doesn’t know why this is so wrong. But it is. It is so very wrong.

Everything she does is pure instinct. Her movements are fast, thoughtless. Yet everything in her is so still and cold that it feels calculated. Precise. She is in control, but it is a side of her she rarely sees. A side she rarely lets out.

She grabs the pair of scissors on her desk, then takes a fistful of her dark locks. The mirror shows her what she is doing, giving her a chance to stop. She knows she should. She knows her parents will hate it. But she can't. The part of her that is in control is rational, but not in that way. It is not cautious.

And so Lycoris cuts her hair.

When she is finished, she sets down the scissors and steps closer to the mirror, turning her head side to side. She has never cut anyone’s hair before, much less her own, but it looks  _ good _ . Her hair looks better than it ever has before. Something about it just… fits. It feels right.

She steps back and surveys her full appearance. Suddenly everything about her just looks so much better. The edges of her face are more pronounced. Her eyes glimmer silver, no longer overshadowed by the mass of hair around her face. She looks like herself, rather than some caricature.

Three knocks on the door.

Her heart leaps into her throat. People will see her like this. Her family will see her like this.

What has she done?

“Enter,” she says, voice shaking.

Kreacher walks in, closing the door behind him. His eyes widen upon seeing her, but he says nothing about it. “Master Lycoris, dinner is served.”

_ I’m not hungry _ , she wants to say. But what she did is irreversible. Her family will see it sooner or later. And she  _ is _ actually very hungry.

“Thank you.” She walks out the door without looking back before she can scare herself any more than she already has.

Dinner is tense, to say the least.

Before Lycoris even sits down, her mother’s eyes are boring holes in her skull. Her father immediately tenses. And, though Sirius is just as stiff as their father, she thinks she sees a ghost of a smile cross his face.

No one speaks while they eat. Her mother is too busy staring Lycoris down to say anything, and her father looks too tired to try and begin a conversation. Sirius is likely just as terrified as Lycoris, and Lycoris is definitely terrified. She shoves food down her throat without thinking about it, before she can lose her appetite. She just focuses on that in a failing attempt to ignore her mother. 

Walburga is drinking. She refills her glass, once, twice, three times. Soon Lycoris stops counting. She really couldn't have picked a worse night to do this.

It is only when they all finish eating that Walburga speaks.

She clears her throat, and looks at Lycoris pointedly. “Your hair is shorter.”

Lycoris looks at her lap.

“Isn’t it?”

She knows a demand to speak when she hears one. “Yes.”

“And what did I tell you about cutting your hair?”

Lycoris’ heartbeat thunders in her ears. “Not to.”

Walburga takes another sip from her glass. Some of the wine sloshes onto the table as she sets it down. “And yet you cut it anyway.”

Lycoris opens her mouth to speak, but Sirius cuts her off. “She isn’t the one who did it.”

Both Lycoris and her mother turn to look at Sirius. What is he doing? Of course she cut her hair. How can he possibly claim otherwise?

“Then who is?” Walburga spits.

“Me,” says Sirius.

“What? No! No, he—”

“It’s okay, Lycoris,” Sirius interrupts. “It’s my fault. You asked me not to and I did it anyway.” He pauses, looking down at the table in feigned regret. “I was right though. It does look better.”

She wants to accept the compliment, to tell him how much that means to her, but she keeps her mouth shut. He is going to take the fall. No matter what she does, he will turn the blame back on him.

Walburga stands. “You cut Lycoris’ hair.”

“Yes.”

_ No, he didn’t. He’s lying! It was me! _ The words repeat in her head. She wants to scream at him to stop. It was her fault and she should be the one to take the blame. 

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t contradict him. She sees the fire in her mother’s eyes and she knows what her mother can do with it and she is too scared to endure her mother’s wrath.

“Is it true?” Walburga asks her.

“Yes,” she says. She hates herself for it. Her mind is screaming, her hands shaking, her whole body locking up in terror. 

Walburga leaves the room, and for a brief, uncertain moment, Lycoris lets some of the tension go. Maybe her mother won’t come back. Maybe she’ll just go to bed.

She looks towards her father. His eyes are closed, his mouth set in a tight line. Just from that, she knows. Her mother will come back, and her world will burn.

Footsteps echo in the hallway into the dining room. Walburga returns, this time with a pair of scissors. “Sirius, come here please.”

Lycoris suppresses a shudder, watching as Sirius walks towards their mother. Walburga had never said please to them. Not even once.

Their mother sits in her chair, turned to the side to face her son. “Turn around.”

Sirius obeys. He flashes Lycoris a grin when he’s facing her. It’s fake, she knows. Something to keep her world from shattering a part. And she hates herself for it, but it works.

Walburga works quickly. She cuts one line up the back of Sirius’ shirt, then pushes it forward so his back is entirely bare. She opens the blades of the scissors and changes her grip, so she can hold one of the blades like she would a knife.

Then she starts cutting lines in Sirius’ back.

Lycoris has to force herself to look away when blood is drawn at the first cut. The red glimmers on the blade and drips down onto the floor. Bile rises in her throat, but she swallows it down. Sirius did this for her. If she does anything to turn her mother against her, too, it will all be in vain.

Sirius cries out at every cut. Just once, when the scissors first break skin in a new place. Lycoris counts each sound—she can't help herself. She looks at her father, but his eyes are still screwed shut. He will do nothing.

It stops when Lycoris gets to seventeen. Seventeen cuts. She wonders how deep they are.

“Lycoris?” her mother asks.

Lycoris looks up, but she can't make eye contact. “Yes.”

“Come here, please.”

Her body moves of its own accord at her mother’s request. It feels like she’s watching it all from somewhere else, not here, with all this pain and terror.

“Hold out your hand, Sirius.”

Sirius lifts his hand towards Lycoris, palm facing up.

She doesn’t understand. What does her mother want her to do? What can she possibly do?

Walburga holds out the scissors to Lycoris. Lycoris takes them, then looks back at Sirius’ outstretched hand, realization slowly dawning on her.

“Just one cut, Lycoris. Nothing more.” She smiles, her eyes still burning bright. “That’s not too hard, now is it?”

~

September comes, and Sirius leaves for Hogwarts.

After what happened when she cut her hair, Lycoris keeps her head down. When she sees her mother drinking, she does whatever she asks and leaves the room. Most days she hides in her bedroom, with either just herself or Kreacher for company.

Then they get word that Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor. Both her parents are furious. They send letter after letter to the headmaster, demanding that he change it, but it’s no use. Soon the letters are to Sirius. Howler after howler, of how disappointed they are. How disgraceful he is.

When Sirius comes home for the holidays, he is different. Unlike Lycoris, he has become more outspoken. He stands up to their mother, argues with her, and disobeys her. And he pays the price.

There are things her mother does to him that Lycoris can't unsee. Things that haunt her dreams, things that she sees every time she closes her eyes like they are engraved on her eyelids. Other things she blocks out entirely. There are entire days that she forgets, moments that she can't picture at all.

Sirius leaves again, and the house becomes quieter. Lycoris keeps to herself as much as she can. Still, the worry remains in the back of her mind.

What if she is sorted into Gryffindor, too?

~

“Black, Lycoris!”

She steps forward, eyes fixated on the tattered hat before her. Where will she go? What if she isn’t sorted into Slytherin? What would her parents think of her then? But what if she is? Would she even belong?

Lycoris sits down on the stool and places the hat on her head.

_ Another Black, I see? _

Lycoris startles at the small voice in her head.

_ Hmm, yes, another Black, but so unlike the others. _

She doesn’t understand. How can she be different? Does that mean she will be sorted into a house other than Slytherin? Will she be in Gryffindor with Sirius?

_ Still, I know just where to put you, my dear boy. _

Wait… boy? How old  _ is _ this hat?

“SLYTHERIN!”

Lycoris sighs in relief. That whole situation was confusing, but at least she’s where her family wants her.

She walks down the hall towards the Slytherin table. Sirius flashes her a thumbs-up from the Gryffindor table and she smiles in return. She won’t be with Sirius in Gryffindor, but he’s still here. He’ll still be happy for her.

Lycoris takes her seat at the edge of the Slytherin table, nodding and smiling at the people across from her. They respond in kind. Who knows? Maybe she does belong here.

The sorting continues and several other first years join her house. Most come eagerly, sitting with their siblings or cousins. Lycoris looks towards Narcissa, but she is talking animatedly with someone and Lycoris knows her cousin would have no interest sitting with someone six years younger than her.

Soon the headmaster welcomes them all, and with his last sentence the feast begins.

So far, Lycoris’ impression of Hogwarts is this: 1. Sorting is important and students take it quite seriously (especially the Slytherins), 2. The castle is far bigger than anyone can ever imagine, 3. People make friends  _ fast _ , and 4. The food here is far better than any she has ever had at home. She scoops food onto her plate over and over again, losing track of just how many helpings she serves herself. Everything just tastes so wonderfully simple. No strange spices and herbs that require “a developed pallet,” as her parents say, just plain, delicious food. 

It is probably an hour before the feast ends, and Lycoris eats for every minute of it. When she finally has to leave, the Slytherin prefects lead her house to their dormitories, down several stairwells—so many that she loses track—and into the dungeons. There, a prefect—Narcissa, actually—announces, “Ambition,” and the entrance to the common room appears.

The Slytherin common room— _ her _ common room, she supposes—is lit by green torches. It creates quite the ambience, with plush couches and intricate tapestries. Still, everything feels so… grand. This is her place to enjoy herself, and yet she knows there’s no way she will ever be able to relax.

Lycoris looks to the back of the room and notices three identical stairwells.

“Your dormitories are just up those staircases,” Narcissa says. “You’ll find all your belongings already in your rooms. Boys are to the left, girls to the right.”

Lycoris waits for her cousin to mention the middle stairwell, but she just turns to the right and starts up the stairs. The students all disperse, boys and girls parting ways accordingly. Lycoris looks around. No one asks about the middle staircase. No one so much as looks at it.

Only when everyone has left the common room does Lycoris investigate the third stairwell. After all, she is clearly the only one who saw it, and she has no need to draw attention to herself on her first day.

She walks up to the staircase, reaching out her hand to make sure it isn’t just some painting on the wall. Her hand pushes through air. Real, then. 

Lycoris climbs the stairs and finds one room at the end of the hall, with one four-poster bed inside. And there, beside the bed, lie her trunk and her owl.

There are many things she doesn’t understand about Hogwarts, but this is by far the most confusing. Why are her belongings here and not with the other girls? Why is she the only one who can see this?

Still, she knows better than to ask. Someday, she’ll figure it out on her own. After all, she’s far smarter than people assume. No need to show her cards when they might come in handy later.

And that, she thinks, must be exactly why the sorting hat placed her in Slytherin.

~

Her first year at Hogwarts is likely the most uneventful year of her life. Even so, that’s not to say she doesn’t work.

No, she works very hard, both to ace her classes, and to maintain exactly the reputation she wants—in other words, no reputation. She flies under the radar of everyone. Teachers know her name by her test grades, but she makes sure never to talk in class. She chooses the back seats whenever available, and chooses to listen rather than speak. She learns about the people around her: their desires, their goals, their prejudices (of which there are many), all the while never letting them learn about herself.

This has its disadvantages, of course. Namely, that she doesn’t have any friends. But the more she listens and the more she learns, the more she realizes she doesn’t want to be friends with them. They hate those different from them and ridicule muggleborns for their heritage, all the while earning lower grades than those they think beneath them.

The word muggleborn is new to Lycoris. All her life the term was mudblood, and somehow she never saw anything wrong with it, but here it’s thrown  _ at _ people rather than  _ about _ them. She sees how they react to it—the hurt and shame, sometimes even fear. Her housemates see their pain and laugh. She sees their pain and learns. 

Many would say she is no better than those who repeat the slur, for she does nothing to stop them. She is a bystander, which is no better than the culprit—and that she knows. But somehow she also knows that standing up for others isn’t her part to play. She can do more by blending in and learning. She  _ will _ do more. Just not yet.

She spends her first year listening and learning, just as she intends to spend the rest, and overall it goes well. It’s certainly better than life at home. Her only qualm is that her professors insist on calling her Miss Black. She can't place why it bothers her so much.

~

Lycoris watches in silence as locks of Sirius’ hair fall to the floor, shorn by the same scissors that once—

She forces herself out of that thought. She won’t remember that night—won’t let those images flood her mind. Instead she focuses on the scene at hand, which, in all honesty, isn’t much better.

Her brother’s lip is bleeding and she can already tell that several bruises will form across his face. Tears slip down his cheeks, and his fingers… oh Merlin, his fingers… Those cracks of them popping out of place, possibly even breaking, will haunt her for years to come.

Yet both she and Sirius remain silent. Hogwarts is a gift, a reprieve from this hell they call home, and soon they will return. They survived eleven years here, surely they can survive two weeks.

Their mother finishes and calls for Kreacher to clean up the hair left on the floor before leaving the room. She has done all the damage she’ll do for tonight.

Lycoris rushes to Sirius. He’s still crying, his whole body slumped. He had been growing out his hair ever since he started at Hogwarts, somehow managing to convince their mother not to force him to cut it for two and a half years, but tonight he failed. Tonight it is gone, cut shorter than it has ever been before.

“I’ll help you to your room.” Lycoris doesn’t ask, for fear he might say no. There were so many times he insisted on being strong, on not letting anyone help him, but tonight he needs her, whether he’ll admit it or not.

Sirius just nods. He hasn’t spoken a word since their mother pulled out the scissors.

Somehow they end up in Sirius’ room, though the journey is already foggy in Lycoris’ mind. So many painful steps helping her brother up the stairs and scrambling through her room to find something that might set his fingers.

Sirius lies down on the bed and stares at the ceiling, unmoving. Lycoris closes the door and follows suit, her head next to his feet.

She doesn’t know how long their silence hangs over them. It’s thick and safe. Easier than talking.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. For not stepping in. For not dragging their mother’s attention to her instead, as Sirius had done for her so many times before. For all the pain he endured.

Sirius takes a moment to respond. “I’m sorry, too.” 

She doesn’t know why he is sorry, but she understands. Neither of them are truly at fault, but it feels good to hear an apology, even if it isn’t from the right person.

“Thank you,” Sirius says. “For helping me here.”

“Of course.”

Another beat of silence passes.

“I’m gonna miss my hair.” His voice sounds strained.

She doesn’t understand. She knows how much his hair means to him, but she can't understand why. All her life she hated having long hair, and yet her brother loved it. “Why?”

“It just… made me feel more like me.”

Lycoris sits up. Long hair always makes her feel trapped, not more like herself. “How?”

Sirius pushes himself up, too, groaning. “I…” He trails off, biting his lip. “Ly, I’m not—I’m not really, fully a boy.”

She blinks. Then blinks again. “I don’t—what do you mean?”

He takes a shaky breath. “I’m a boy, but only sometimes. Other times I’m a girl. And other times I’m neither of those.”

“Your gender… changes?”

“Yeah. It’s like it transfigures. And having long hair makes me feel better about that. Like my outsides match my insides.”

“Oh.” She can't relate, but in some way she understands. When she cut her hair it felt more like her outsides matched her insides. “Okay.”

“You don’t think that’s weird?”

She shrugs. “Given you’re really weird? That’s probably the least weird thing about you.”

Sirius’ lips turn upward in the ghost of a smile.

“I think I’m the opposite, though. I hate having long hair.”

“Well, you can always pull it back.”

“Whenever it’s in a ponytail it feels the same as wearing it down.” No matter how high or low she wears it, her hair is so thick and there’s so much of it that it still gets in her face and makes her uncomfortable.

“What about in a plait?”

Her face heats up and she looks down at the bed. She has always wanted to try that—Uncle Alphard and her grandfather often wear their hair plaited. “I… don’t know how.”

“Then I’ll teach you.”

~

The cold air bites at her cheeks as she flies through the air, the wind rushing in her ears. She flies up so she can get a better view of the pitch—search for any hint of gold.

She is thirteen now, and the youngest member of the Quidditch team. Even so, it was her that joined as Slytherin’s newest Seeker, rather than all the sixth and seventh years who tried out.

Quidditch, she decides, is officially her favorite thing in the world. She does well in her classes, but it’s here that she excels. Here, she feels free. Her hair is pulled tight in a plait, out of her face and in the same fashion her grandfather usually does, her uniform is just like everyone else’s, and she will be seen only as an athlete, nothing more. She doesn’t have to impress anyone, and she doesn’t have to hide. All she has to do is catch the snitch.

Which, today at least, is proving to be something she is quite good at, as the snitch is buzzing close to the Hufflepuff stands and the Ravenclaw seeker doesn’t seem to notice.

She races down and to her right, dodging a Bludger and a few other players. There, it’s just a few feet away…

The Snitch starts flying in the other direction. She chases after it, crouched in on her broom for speed.

“What’s this? It looks like Lycoris Black has found the Snitch!”

She curses the commentator. Now the Ravenclaw seeker is heading her way.

The Snitch flies up, and she has to stop before she can start her ascent, lest she fly into the stands. Still, she’s getting closer, closer, she’s almost there…

She snaps out her arm and wraps her hand around the Snitch.

“SLYTHERIN WINS!”

She does a loop in the air. There are not many things that feel like freedom, like pure joy rushing through her veins, but this is certainly one of them.

~

Everything is closing in. It’s suffocating—this body, this feeling, this never-ending discomfort where everything just feels so  _ wrong _ . It’s a trap. It feels like the world is a trap and there’s no way out.

Every movement made is a reminder of this stupid body, and she hates it. She hates thinking about it, she hates the fact that she uses the word  _ she _ . Just thinking about what she—Merlin, that terrible word again—looks like prompts a dire need to curl up in the corner and never leave.

Some girls hate their bodies too, but somehow this is different. How is it possible that some girls want to be thinner, or have bigger breasts, or look more feminine, or any of it? It doesn’t make any sense, when this body as it is is horrible all on its own. It doesn’t fit at all, and none of those changes would make it better. They all talk about wanting to be beautiful, or not feel ugly, which on some level is understandable, but that doesn't help with reconnecting with one's true self.

To top it all off, now there’s this period to deal with for the first time, and it's torture. Supposedly that makes her more of a woman now, which is horrifying in its own right. Everyone talks about how getting their period is this big coming-of-age thing, but it doesn’t feel like coming into anything. All there is is blood.

The thought of being a woman is the worst thing she has ever heard. She doesn’t want to be a woman. Firstly, she is far too young for that, and secondly, she doesn’t want to be a woman ever.  _ She _ ,  _ she _ ,  _ she _ ,  _ she _ —it’s overwhelming. There is nothing female in this body, or in this mind.

Every thought comes to a screeching halt.

Lycoris has never admitted that before. It has been there for a long time, but it was always something to hide from.

She doesn’t want to be a girl. She doesn’t feel like a girl. She despises using the word  _ she _ .

But… if Sirius doesn’t feel like a boy, he isn’t a boy, so does that mean that if someone doesn’t feel like a girl, they aren’t a girl?

_ Am I a boy? _

Memories flood every nerve, every synapse. All the times being called a lady felt paralyzing, all the times being called Miss Black felt wrong, how it feels better when Kreacher says Master instead of Mistress, how the sorting hat said  _ boy _ , how the layout of the girl’s dorms is a mystery, how short hair is a dream, how this body is a nightmare, how terrible being a  _ her _ is… What if the word should be  _ him _ ? 

She—no,  _ he _ tries it out in his head. Lycoris, a boy. ‘Lycoris’ still feels wrong but the boy part… that feels better. Mr. Black. A boy, no matter what his body looks like.

He likes that. It feels better. It feels better than better. It feels like he’s soaring through the skies, like he’s finally free.

She— _ he _ , he corrects himself, sits down on his bed, overwhelmed. 

It all makes so much more sense. All of it. He can't live in the girl’s dormitories because he isn’t a girl, but he can't live in the boy’s dormitories because nobody here will believe him. He hates being called ‘she’ because he’s a boy. All the pieces line up, forming the finished puzzle.

He is a boy.

But if he’s a boy, and he can be who he truly is, then he doesn’t want the name Lycoris Cassiopeia. So why can’t he just choose another?

The air feels clearer than it ever has before. He is a boy, and his name isn’t Lycoris Cassiopeia. His name can be whatever he wants.

He thinks back through his family tree. He doesn’t have to abide by the family traditions, he knows, but he has always liked being named after stars and constellations.

Alphard? No, that would be strange. Pollux? That doesn’t feel right either. What about Regulus? Or Arcturus?

He likes both, more than any of the other names, but he likes Regulus slightly more. Regulus Arcturus it is, then.

His name is Regulus Arcturus Black.

He breathes, and it feels peaceful, feels right, for the first time in his life.

He knows no one else will believe him or listen to him. They would think him crazy if he brought it up, or worse, start attacking him like they attack muggleborns. He will have to live as a girl, even though he knows he’s a boy.

The thought makes him sick to his stomach. He has found a name, and no one will ever use it.

He forces the queasiness away. All his life he has done everything he can to not care about the opinions of others. They never mattered before, and he will do his best not to let them matter now.

He is Regulus Arcturus Black. He knows that, and that’s all that matters.

~

Regulus wanted to tell Sirius today, but it’s too late.

He doesn’t know how it started. Someone—Sirius or their mother—picked a fight, and they argued for hours, and somewhere in there Sirius said that he was gay and in love with a werewolf.

Regulus thought he had seen torture. He was wrong.

“ _ Crucio! _ ”

Red light flashes and Sirius is screaming on the floor.

Regulus is paralyzed. Not magically, but he can't move. All he can do is watch.

Sirius screams until his voice breaks and even then he screams without sound.

Regulus starts counting the minutes, but loses track. All he can hear are his brother’s screams. There is nothing he can do. His brother screams, and there is nothing he can do.

He starts crying. 

Walburga lowers her wand, and kneels next to Sirius. “Take it back.”

_ Please _ , Regulus begs Sirius silently.  _ Please just do as she says _ .

Sirius slowly opens his eyes. “No.”

“ _ Crucio _ !”

He can't take it anymore. He can't do anything, but he can't just watch either. “Mother, please stop!”

Walburga sets her gaze on Regulus. His heart comes to a thundering halt. There is nothing kind in those eyes, only pure, blazing fire.

She adjusts the angle of her wand. “ _ Crucio _ .”

Unfathomable pain overtakes him. Regulus’ knees give out and suddenly he is writhing on the floor, screams echoing out unbidden. Pain climbs up his limbs, up his neck, up his spine, and into his mind and heart. Every movement is agony, every scream is a blade ripping up his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sirius stand.

He doesn’t know how. This pain is like nothing he has ever felt. He doubts he can ever recover. And yet, after enduring almost an hour of this, his brother stands.

Walburga doesn’t notice, too focused on Regulus, so Sirius sneaks behind her. Then he grabs the back of her head and forces it down into the dinner table.

The pain stops.

Regulus makes a small, broken noise.

Then Sirius is at his side, helping him to his feet.

“What did you do?”

“She’s just unconscious.”

Regulus looks over, horrified. “She’ll kill you when she wakes up. She’ll actually kill you.”

“I know,” Sirius says. “That’s why I have to go.”

“You’re running away?”

Sirius nods. 

Everything is happening too fast. “What about Father?”

“He won’t stop me.”

Regulus knows it’s true.

“You can come with me.”

A part of Regulus wants that. To never see this place again, to leave it all behind. But he can't. He is a Slytherin, and while Sirius will have protection from his friends, there would be no one to fight for Regulus. Besides, he has a role to play, and this would cost him everything. “I can’t.”

Sirius sighs. “I know.” 

Regulus watches as his brother climbs up the stairs and comes back down with his trunk.

“Goodbye, Lycoris.”

Regulus suppresses a flinch. “Wait.” He has to take a moment to prepare himself, breathing heavily. It’s now or never. “I'm Regulus. Regulus Arcturus.”

“But that’s—” He trails off, the question in his eyes.

Regulus nods. "Yes."

“Goodbye, Regulus.” Sirius offers a weak smile, then walks to the fireplace and disappears in a flash of green light.

He is gone.

When Regulus goes upstairs and looks in Sirius’ room later that night, he finds that all but one of the things Sirius put up on his walls remain. Sirius took the picture Regulus drew when he was eight with him. 

Even though he hadn’t known at the time, Sirius had taken the one thing that showed Regulus as he actually was. A picture of a boy.

~

Three Hogwarts students have died at the hands of Voldemort and his followers. He heard months ago, but he can’t stop thinking about it. Students, dead, simply for being muggleborn. For being different.

Every time he remembers he feels sick. People are dying: muggleborns, muggles, anyone who Voldemort and his supporters think are worth less than them.

For now, Regulus is safe. But if anyone finds out who he truly is, he’ll be dead, too. 

He has to stop it. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t even know where to start, but somehow he has to stop this.

Regulus takes a step back, scanning the walls of his room. There’s so much information about Voldemort, and yet so little. He has hung articles and papers and anything he could find up in his room, sorted by date and source, to get a better perspective. He’s sure that somehow in this mess there’s something he can figure out, some question he can answer, but there’s just so much to sort through.

He hasn’t read all the information yet, only arranged it properly. Now he goes through and reads everything in chronological order. 

Most of it is useless. Murder after murder, suspected members of his followers, questions about his motivations and goals.

However, one thing stands out: now matter how many people have tried, Voldemort hasn’t been killed. Most journalists pass it off as luck or skill, but Regulus isn’t so sure. Aurors have been sent after him, some of the most powerful London, and yet Voldemort lives. He doesn’t seem to fear death, or even attempt to avoid it. He simply doesn’t die.

That’s the only thing Regulus learns, and it raises more questions than it answers, but it’s better than nothing. He keeps the articles up on his walls for research later.

There are only three more days until he goes back to Hogwarts for his sixth year. Perhaps he’ll be able to learn something more there.

~

Regulus researches for weeks. He spends every second he can in the library, reading anything he can in hope of some answer, some way to be rid of death. The closest thing he finds is the philosopher's stone, but that grants immortality, not invincibility.

Thankfully, it’s easy enough to get access to the restricted section. He’s been attending Slug Club meetings for the past year, and Professor Slughorn didn’t ask any questions when Regulus asked for a note.

He skims through chapter after chapter, book after book, yet finds nothing. It’s understandable why these books are restricted—he’s never read about anything so horrible in school. Still, it doesn’t disturb him, not after the things he has seen. Some spells he even recognizes, from his parents or other Slytherins.

After hours of reading, his eyes feel heavy and he has to reread passages several times to understand their meaning, but one quote catches his eye. “ _ Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction. _ ”

Regulus looks back at the cover of the book for the title— _ Magick Moste Evile _ . If even the writers of this wouldn’t explain this  _ Horcrux _ , then it might be exactly what Voldemort would use.

He closes the book and pulls down the next one, immediately flipping to the index.  _ Horcrux, Horcrux, Horcrux _ … nothing. He grabs the next book.  _ H… Ho… Hos _ . Nothing there either. Ten books later and there’s still nothing.

The next one has one mention of Horcruxes on page 198. “ _ The only known book to explain the creation of a Horcrux is  _ Secrets of the Darkest Art.”

Regulus walks back to the shelf, searching for the book, but it’s not there. Whatever Horcruxes are, they’re too dark for the restricted section.

Finally, he finds something. Not directions, but at least a definition. “ _ Horcruxes are objects that contain pieces of a person’s soul. The person cannot be killed unless the Horcrux is destroyed _ .”

Regulus sits back and rubs his eyes before reading it again.

It makes perfect sense. Voldemort has created a Horcrux, or several, and thus can’t be killed until his Horcrux is destroyed.

Regulus puts the books back on the shelf and walks back to his dormitory, letting that information sink in.

He’ll have to do more research, but this is a start. A huge start. If he can figure out what Voldemort’s Horcrux is, and where it is, or what they are and where they are, he can fight Voldemort without ever even meeting him.

But for now, he’ll sleep. He can learn more tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and then he’ll find a way to destroy a piece of Voldemort’s soul.

~

December is here, and he has found next to nothing. Through extensive research, he has come to the conclusion that someone must die for a Horcrux to be made, but given the number of people Voldemort has killed, that doesn’t tell Regulus much of anything. For all he knows, Voldemort could have hundreds of Horcruxes, made throughout the course of his life.

The only way to learn anything about what Horcruxes Voldemort might have created and where they are hidden is to learn more about him. Not just his actions, or his history, but Voldemort himself. His beliefs, his obsessions, his intricacies. And the only way to do that is… well. The only way to do that is in person.

His mother had been delighted when he suggested they visit Bellatrix and her new husband, and although she mentioned how strange it was for him to suddenly be interested in spending time with his cousin, she didn’t seem suspicious. If he wanted to, he likely could have told her his true intent and she would have supported him, but for the moment he wants to keep his cards close to his chest.

Rodolphus laughs at something Walburga says, and Regulus takes the opportunity to pull Bellatrix aside.

“What is it?” she snaps.

Regulus leans against the wall, careful to keep his body relaxed. “I know you’re one of His followers.” He doesn’t say his name—most people, including the Death Eaters, are too afraid to, and it would be a dead giveaway that he isn’t fully on board. He doesn’t have to, though. It’s clear Bellatrix knows.

“Are you…” She laughs. “Are you threatening me?”

“No.” He lets an easy half-smile rest on his face.

“Then what?”

He swallows the sour taste in his mouth, and pushes down the nerves spiraling in his gut. This is what he has to do. It’s already too late to turn back. 

“I want in.”

“You? You want to be a Death Eater? You’re only sixteen.”

“I’m the heir to the Black family. Do you really think he’ll say no?”

Bellatrix cocks her head to the side, grinning slightly. “Alright. I’ll meet you at eight on Thursday.”

Regulus nods.

“Make sure you’re ready,” she adds. There’s a glint in her eye, a fire he rarely sees from her. “He doesn’t like it when people are late.”

~

Regulus looks back at the articles plastered to the walls of his room. He thought they were going to prepare him, but he was wrong. Nothing in the world could have prepared him, no matter how much research he did.

Voldemort is both everything like what he imagined and nothing like what he imagined him to be. He is arrogant, which had been expected. He walks like he has nothing to fear, and for good reason. He has power, and he knows it. He knows that his secrets are safe from everyone. Well, everyone except Regulus. Still, no amount of information could have prepared Regulus for the sheer terror he felt in Voldemort’s presence. His voice sends chills down Regulus’ spine, and his eyes look straight through him, straight into his soul, and it feels like every thought is displayed before him, like his mind is an open book. Every second was a struggle to keep his mind perfectly blank. To observe, not think. And to send the rest of his energy into building a mental wall, a fortress around his mind.

He pushes up his left sleeve, tracing the tattoo with his finger. The image of Voldemort’s wand digging into his flesh flashes before him. It still burns, not just stings, but truly feels like it’s on fire, hours later—a sensation he’s sure he’ll become quite familiar with.

He’s one of them, now. A murderer, not by action, but by association. So far, at least. He doesn’t know what atrocities he’ll have to commit to prove his loyalties.

Regulus will prove his loyalties, though, no matter what that requires. There are few lines he won’t cross. If it means the world is one step closer to Voldemort’s death, it’s worth it.

He pulls his sleeve back down and flips open a notebook. If he wants to find the answers, he’ll need to keep track of everything Voldemort says. Every sentence, every word, no matter how insignificant it might seem. Anything could be a clue.

Dipping his quill in ink, he starts to write.

~

He has his answers. All of them. Well, almost all of them. But it’s enough. Enough for him to finally leave the Death Eaters, enough for him to begin his true work.

He’s eighteen, now. He has been a Death Eater for almost two years. Two years of blood and murder and torture and things he wishes he could unsee, things he wishes he could take back. It was worth it. He knows it was worth it.

Voldemort has six Horcruxes, Regulus has concluded. Six, so that his soul is split into seven, a number he believes gives him more power. 

The first is a ring, originally owned by his grandfather. Voldemort once boasted of its importance in his family, and how it bore the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, a sign he was always meant to lead. Regulus doesn’t know for certain where it is, but his guess is either in the Gaunt family house or in Marvolo Gaunt’s grave.

The second is his snake. The way he talks to her goes beyond language, beyond the spoken word. He can understand her simply with a look, like she contains more of him than herself.

The third he isn’t sure of, but he knows it’s in Lucius Malfoy’s possession. His cousin-in-law mentioned it several times—how the Dark Lord had chosen him to protect a most valuable item.

The fourth and fifth are Helga Hufflepuff’s cup and Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost diadem, born of Voldemort’s obsession with Hogwarts’ founders. He never chose anything of Godric Gryffindor’s, likely because the most obvious choice would be the sword, which would never appear to him. Once again, Regulus isn’t sure of their exact locations, but his guess is that one is in Bellatrix’s possession and the other still somewhere in Hogwarts.

The last Horcrux is Salazar Slytherin’s locket, hidden in a cave Voldemort visited as a child. This he is most certain of, for Kreacher himself was brought there and asked to test the locket’s defenses before being left to die, so this is where he will start. 

He doesn’t know if he will survive. In all honesty, he doubts he will survive. But of all of the Horcruxes, this is the one he has the most information on and he would be a fool not to use it.

Regulus stuffs his notebook in his pocket and walks outside his bedroom in his parents’ house. This is the last time he will see them, or anyone who knows him—other than Kreacher, of course. This the last time he will ever be here. But he will not leave without leaving his mark.

He pulls out his wand and whispers a spell, watching as the letters on the sign outside his room change, transforming into his true name. The sign now reads: 

_ Do Not Enter _

_ Without the Express Permission of _

_ Regulus Arcturus Black _

He originally made the sign when he was twelve, tired of Sirius barging into his room unannounced. It never worked, but now it means something more to him. A reminder to the world of who he is.

He next goes to the tapestry of the family tree, and casts the spell there, too. Now, next to the black smudge that was once his brother’s name, lies his, spelled out in gold lettering: _ Regulus Black _ .

Something inside him releases, a tension subsiding. His mother might blast him off the tapestry, too, but his name will always be Regulus.

“Kreacher,” he calls.

Kreacher appears next to him with a crack. “Yes, Master?”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. It’s time.” 

He pulls out the note he has written from the fake locket and looks at it one last time before snapping the locket shut and dropping it back in his pocket.

_ To the Dark Lord _

_ I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. _

_ R.A.B. _


End file.
